William Bayer - Blind Side

She wasn't at all what I'd expected. A topless bartender at a topless bar-that in itself was bizarre. But there was more that interested me: her working-class

her direct no-nonsense manner, the morose distracted way she smoked and walked her dog, and the searching way she looked me in the eye.

Grace radiated strength and confidence, which might explain why Kim had turned to her when things got dangerous in New York. Did Grace know where Kim was now? If I was clever enough I might find out.

Some of my ebullience left me, however, when I drove up to the Devora. There could be a problem if Grace came to the office and asked for "Mr. Lynch." I hadn't given her my real name just in case Kimberly had mentioned me. I'd felt the camera around my neck was bad enough.

I sat in my car pondering what to do. Finally I made up my mind. I walked to the office, where, despite the fans, the clerk's shirt was wringing wet.

"If it's about the air conditioning," he said, "expect to have it on by five."

"I hope so," I said.

"I nearly suffocated last night."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"That's okay, but now I've got a little problem you can help me with."

He was all ears as I outlined my difficulty. A newly met lady friend would be visiting, and, being married and discreet, I'd given her another name. When she came by and asked for "Mr. Lynch," there was twenty dollars in it if he'd ring me in my room.

"Twenty dollars?"

"Make it thirty." I laid the cash on the counter.

He stared down at my three tens.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Lynch!"

Grace arrived right on time. She was wearing an attractive linen blouse, which made it all right, I figured to stare a little at her chest.

"Seen much of Cleveland?" she asked as she pulled out of the motel. "Not much," I said.

"Haven't had the time."

"Think your wallet can stand it if we go a little fancy?"

"Sure. Where do you want to go?"

"Shaker Heights." We drove for almost half an hour. She did most of the talking. She described what it was like to live in Cleveland-though she'd been born and raised there, she didn't like the city much. She felt trapped, she said, but didn't have an alternative, at least for now. If she could have her way, she'd live in a warm tropical place. She'd spent a year in Florida once, but then she'd moved back when things had soured for her there.

She liked being a bartender-it was a job she. knew how to do. Normally she worked the night shift, but this was summer, vacation time, so this particular week she was filling in days. As for being topless, that was the required costume for the job. Personally she didn't care. She had nothing to be ashamed of, and it was actually comfortable, what with all the heat and humidity the last few months.

The ambience at the bar where she took me was a far cry from the place where she worked. An attractive young woman, in a long evening dress, sat at a white piano playing Cole Porter tunes. The air conditioning worked, the lighting was subdued, and the customers looked affluent and relaxed. A buzz of lively chatter and the tinkle of cocktail glasses and ice played against the music and filled the room with a sophisticated hum.

"What do you think?" she asked, after she ordered a champagne cocktail.

"Pretty nice," I said.

"Yeah. And special for me too. I feel real nostalgic whenever I come in here. Fell in love here once. In this very room."

"What happened?"

"The usual."

"What's that?"

"Oh, you know-it lasted awhile, then it ended." She pulled out a cigarette. I lit it for her. She inhaled, then pensively stirred her drink. She looked at me.

"You're a nice guy."

"Thanks. I try to be."

"Which is why I'm going to tell you something personal, which you may not be too happy to hear."

"Go ahead."

"I like all kinds of people. But romantically speaking it's different. Given a choice between a guy and a galI'll usually take the girl."

"No problem," I said.

"I already figured that." You did? Really? That's because you're from the East.

"I told you, Grace-I wasn't looking for sex."

"Appreciate that. Always feel better once that's settled." She took another long draw, then stubbed out her cigarette.

"The person you fell in love with here-was she a girl?" I asked.

"Yeah, that she certainly was." Grace grinned and shook her head. "Hard being gay in Cleveland?"

"Little bit. But people don't mess with me."

"they accept you."

"Don't know if they 'accept' exactly. But they know I don't take any shit."

The girl at the piano was playing "I Get a Kick out of You.

Grace nodded to the music.

"Love this tune. Makes me feel, I don't know-kind of squishy inside……

We ate dinner at a little Italian place in the Murry Hill section just above Western Reserve University. It was the kind of inexpensive graduate-student joint you don't find easily in New York these days-small, friendly, with Neapolitan cuisine, dishes like chicken cacciatore and eggplant parmigiana, and that wonderful old clichd, a candle stuck in a Chianti bottle on a red-and-white checked tablecloth.

I was pleased with the way Grace had opened up; all she needed, it seemed, was a good empathetic listener. So I worked hard playing that role, lavishing her with compassion, telling her about an imaginary lesbian couple I knew in Boston, wonderful creative women, trying for years to adopt a child, but people were intolerant. Wasn't it ridiculous? But that's the way people were. they always hated what they didn't understand, and sometimes they hated because they understood too well.

She looked up at me as she was spooning up the last of her spumoni.

"I may not have sex with guys, but I give a hell of a mean massage. Worked as a masseuse for a couple of years. Still do it a little on the side to make extra bucks." She winked.

"Interested?"

"Sure, I'm interested," I said, "so long as we don't have to do it at my motel."

She laughed.

"Course not. Got a room specially set up for it at the house. No charge either, not for you. You've been real nice. Fair exchange, seems to me, for a good evening on the town."

We stopped first at my motel, so I could pick up my car. I rather liked the idea of openly following her, without having to worry about being spotted. She fascinated me: a brassy balls-up dame tending an emotional wound. Had Kim played sultry "femme" to Grace's earthy diesel"? I couldn't imagine two women more opposite.

Even while Grace was unlocking the door of her house I could hear the dog yelping inside. When it saw me, it stood up on its hind legs and barked.

"Heidi! Stop that! Don't bark at the nice man!" Heidi lowered herself and sniffed suspiciously at my shoe.

"She's into feet." Grace smiled.

"Heavy crotch worship too."

Grace quickly attached a leash to Heidi's collar, and headed for the door.

"Be back in a minute. Make yourself at home. Bathroom's upstairs if you need it." Then she took the dog outside.

Heading up the stairs, I prayed Heidi had a very full bladder, full enough to allow me a good look around. As it happened, I hit pay dirt as soon as I entered Grace's bedroom. There was a collection of framed photos nicely arranged on the dresser. One of them, a color shot, showed Grace and Kim sitting together cross-legged on a boat, smiling and gleeful, arms buddy style across each other's shoulders.

I trembled a bit as I picked up the picture. It appeared to have been taken in Southern waters. There were palms on the shoreline and the kind of waterfront condos one finds all up and down the Florida coast.

But the most striking thing about the shot, the thing that made my heart beat fast, was the curious position of their hands. Not the hands they used to cup each other, but the hands that lay free in their laps. The forefinger of each was pointed directly at the other's ankle, which seemed to be the source of all their glee.